


Twilight

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [42]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 14:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13719726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Twilight.   College years.





	Twilight

**Author's Note:**

> Set closely to Desperately Wanting.

 

The light slanted low, warm and golden and soporific on Lancelot's face. He rested his chin in his hand, loose pajama pants cinched haphazardly around his waist, the baggy fabric comfortable and soft - the light was like that. He loved this time of day; sitting on the porch of his and Arthur's house he could almost forget his skinned knuckles and his fat lip. He could almost forget the trip he'd taken - not the fact that it had been Italy, but the things he'd gone there to do, for Roland. He could almost forget he'd been away from Arthur for almost a month, and with their relationship so new, that had been terrifying.

He could almost forget he had to go back to school tomorrow and he could almost forget just how easily he seemed to let happiness and pure contentment slip through his fingers, jumping at the snap of his father's fingers, constantly letting Guinevere goad him into something he didn't really want, too often falling for the lure of gossip and pettiness and the patterns of life he'd ingrained in his brain since he was a child. Seeing his behavior, trying to stop it, unable to without help -

"Fuck," he spat, and rubbed at his arms; the gold of the sun was fading into twilight and the downy hair that dusted his skin stood up as he became chilled. He shifted on his ass on the concrete, the thin pants he wore no barrier between him and the steps. This was his favorite time of day...and he couldn't help but see the pain in it.

He heard the door open and close and after a few seconds Arthur's foot nudged his hip, the other man plopping down next to him, his tank top and shorts as bedraggled as Lance's pj's. They stared at the setting sun together, and then Arthur picked up Lance's left hand and wound his fingers in it.

"Hey," he said, smiling, and Lance, mind whirling full of blackness and buzzing like a beehive, smiled back helplessly, and leant over and kissed Arthur's mouth, even though his lips were sore and still healing. He laughed when Arthur did but kept kissing, squeezing Arthur's hand with his and pressing his leg against Arthur's. He could feel the heat hanging on to the other man, and relished it, wanted it, loved it so much he could feel his heart swelling and his blood racing - and gods, but that was so good.

"You want some dinner? I think I have enough stuff to make spaghetti," Arthur said, pulling away slightly, free hand cupping Lancelot's cheek. "Er, rephrase. I think we have enough stuff for _you_ to make spaghetti." He smiled and flushed and Lance laughed again, the charm of _Arthur_ soaking into him, breaking his mood, breaking the pattern, breaking the dark that waited in his thoughts and always threatened to take over everything.

"I think I need to refuel after this afternoon," he answered, pecking Arthur's nose and then cheek as he wound his fingers in the hair at the base of the other man's neck. "You have sufficiently worn me out." He shifted on his butt again and winced for show, the redness that had been in Arthur's face spreading to his neck. Lance pulled back and grinned, standing, and reached out a hand, tugging Arthur to his feet. "What did you have planned for afterward?" He looked down at his bare feet and then up at Arthur from under his lashes.

The other man rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the gaze he sent Lance had heat pooling in his groin rapidly. "I'm sure we can think of something," Arthur mocked and turned back to the house. "Coming?"

"Eventually," Lance said under his breath, but nodded at Arthur when the other man opened the door. "I'll be there in a minute."

He watched Arthur go inside, the muscles in his arms strong and bunching and Lance thanked the universe and every god he could name for this gift he had been given. He could feel Arthur's hold around him, ghosting over his skin, the smile he loved imprinted on his neck and lips and he breathed in, smelling Arthur and feeling the touch -

"We do have pasta," Arthur yelled from the open window, shattering Lance's reverie.

"Okay, Arthur," Lance yelled back, arms crossing over his bare chest, turning to watch the last of the sun die behind the buildings across the way and the park he could barely see at the top of their street.

He went inside, trying, trying so hard to leave the shit and the darkness and the patterns behind. He bit his lip and went into the kitchen, quickly letting go of it as he'd forgotten about the split in it; his scraped up fingers ached and he rubbed at the palm of his right hand.

_I am my father's son. There was never any doubt._

"Here's the noodles; I can heat the sauce without burning it. I hope," Arthur tossed a packet of pasta at Lance, who caught it with his left hand, the package crinkling. Lance set it down on the stove and snapped on the burner, digging out a pot and filling it with water. He watched it boil, staring, waiting for the bubbles, rubbing his fingers together, nervous and annoyed and hating his family and sore and Arthur was behind him, slipping arms around his waist, lips on Lance's neck, hair tickling Lance's jaw.

"Aren't you hungry?" Lance murmured, hands winding in Arthur's, the swirling of his thoughts drifting away like so much trash on the wind, his father and family and everything else _gone_ with one breath of this man. He turned in Arthur's hold and laughed gently as Arthur's fingers undid his pajama pants with quick deftness; he stepped out of them and kicked them to the side, tugging at Arthur's tank, pulling it over the other man's head as Arthur clicked the burner off.

Lance walked backward as Arthur walked forward, forcing him to the couch, Lance's naked legs folding easily over the furniture as Arthur laid him out. "I am," Arthur said, smiling. "But I decided I don't want pasta."

The night was fully on them as Arthur took Lance to a place where there wasn't any darkness or idiocy or pain or hatred or anything but _them_ and he didn't know if he could stand it, could stand the joy and love and he cried out, shattered time and again, living only Arthur and he knew this was the only thing that mattered.

He could break a habit, if he had this.


End file.
